


The Sinking of the Tundra

by bloodsuckerhead



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Autistic Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Autistic Jonathan Sims, Autistic Martin Blackwood, Cane User Jonathan Sims, Coffee Shops, Disabled Author, Disabled Character, Disabled Jonathan Sims, Enemies to Lovers, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, M/M, Minor Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Minor Character Death, Minor Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Minor Original Character(s), NO COPS AU: daisy is One of Those Dog Breeders & Basira is a Normal Librarian, Trans Character, Trans Gerard Keay, Trans Jared Hopworth, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Trans Sasha James, autistic author, jonmartin, mentions of JK Rowling, neurodivergent character, roommate told me to add 'no canon typical worms' i dont know what thats about, some crimes can be forgiven, sorry for being a customer, trans author, trans mike crew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 22:14:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25612693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodsuckerhead/pseuds/bloodsuckerhead
Summary: Martin Blackwood works at the Tundra, an inexplicably nautical-themed coffee shop owned by Peter Lukas. Jonathan Sims is his least favorite regular.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53





	The Sinking of the Tundra

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer- am an autistic trans man with a cane so that stuff is drawn from my own experiences.
> 
> I'm mad at Jonny Sims about the racism but wanted 2 write this 2 entertain myself & my roommate, especially considering th podcast is on hiatus & I can't leave my house thanks to pandemic. Haven't written fan fiction in years, hope u have fun!

The Tundra is a reasonably-priced, inexplicably nautical-themed coffee shop run by one Peter Lukas. Peter is old money, some kind of heir, and has enough business ventures up and running that he has absolutely no real financial need to own a coffee shop. But The Tundra is his pet project. Its success is tied  _ deeply _ to his self esteem. He is both owner and ‘Captain’ (he has a novelty plaque on his desk declaring this), and he knows nothing about running a food service establishment. He insists the skeleton crew of a staff behave like family while constantly pitting them against each other and manipulating them; yet is really weirdly invested in all of them  _ genuinely  _ liking him as a person. In general he erodes any work-life boundaries anyone manages to carve.

If Peter Lukas is the captain, then Martin Blackwood is the Chief Mate- he has a pin on his apron and everything- and this coffee shop is an ocean liner with a sizable hole in the bottom. Martin has worked in food service ever since dropping out of uni. He knows  _ plenty _ about running a food service establishment, by virtue of working at plenty of dysfunctional ones. He’s the most senior employee The Tundra has. This is not only because of his customer service skills: his ability to compartmentalize and suffer his boss walking all over him plays a part as sizable as his other expertise. In his heart Martin  _ knows _ The Tundra would crumble without him. He should take this knowledge, update his resume without even having to lie, and get a job as a manager at a different, better coffee shop. Or maybe lie a little and aim higher than that. But Martin gets a perverse sort of satisfaction from knowing how deeply the place needs him, and this weird self esteem lifeline has so far kept him firmly bound to a job that is neverendingly harrowing and degrading.

This Thursday morning, Martin is late to open. It isn’t that he meant to oversleep. As an opener the extra sleep is no luxury. This means playing catch up for the rest of the morning unless he can manage to do it all himself in a feat of sheer, insane will, and depending on who else is scheduled he might have to. He can’t remember who he’s scheduled. He is preoccupied with this when he nearly runs into one of the regulars directly outside of The Tundra. 

It is 7 AM on the dot, and as she always is at 7 AM on the dot, the Dog Lady is here. The Dog Lady is a 40-something butch with a crew cut, a Welsh accent, and a rotation of wretched border collies that she claims to be her (singular) service dog. Martin has since found out from the Dog Lady’s girlfriend that she 1) is lying 2) breeds them. In central London. Martin has no idea how she manages to keep that many herding dogs in an apartment without her or all of them going completely insane.

Martin is scared of the Dog Lady and only sort of nods at her as he unlocks the door. The border collie accompanying her today has the same uncanny pale eyes as its owner and tries to shove its head into the space between the door and the frame when he goes to close it. The Dog Lady takes her time pulling it away.

The interior of The Tundra looks like how a wealthy middle-aged woman would decorate the bathroom of her seaside vacation hideaway. Lots of ropes and buoys nailed to the walls, lots of dark wood and slate gray paint. Martin thinks it’s tacky, but it’s not like he has any better ideas. He clocks in, and then, after checking his scheduling app and learning who is supposed to be here but isn’t, Martin clocks in both baristas. Peter never notices when Martin pulls this; possibly because Martin tries not to be late, and possibly because Peter trusts him. Martin thinks to himself what a bad idea that is while he goes around and flicks on the lights. He tries to ignore the faintly crackling static from the speakers. It always bothers Martin’s ears, but it generally seems to do little more than vaguely disconcert most customers. Once, two years back, they had a shop playlist. It was only the Top 40s, but it was something. A now long-gone barista had asked to make a custom one, saying that xie had Peter’s tastes in mind. Peter had been annoyingly enthusiastic, until he discovered said playlist was made up of traditional British sea shanties, a handful of songs by The Decemberists, and the sound of whales mating. Peter’s feelings had been irreparably hurt and music in the shop had been officially banned. The barista was fired. The static crackled on in lonesome remembrance.

It’s 7:15 AM when Chloe arrives, distraught and saying something about a late train. The other barista arrives 5 minutes later. They are noticeably not upset.

If Martin is the long-suffering Chief Mate, then Chloe is the equally harried Second Mate. On paperwork she's just another barista, but after she'd lasted 6 months Martin found another stupid pin in the office and apologized about it not coming with a promotion. Chloe hadn't minded. Seventeen and tiny, with a reedy voice and a shock of bright purple hair, Chloe is the longest lasting employee The Tundra has ever had besides Martin. This seniority makes the workplace dynamic very weird: for instance, this morning the other barista on shift is 19 and has been working both here and in coffee for a total of a week and a half. 

Chloe is trying to show them how to remove the toddy bag without a disaster occurring. She is too short for the task, and the other barista (Martin has learned their pronouns but not their name because, perhaps cynically but probably accurately, he doesn't expect them to last out the month), is only watching blankly as she risks life and limb and wet coffee grounds all over the floor. She barely succeeds in getting it all into the trash just as Martin is considering whether he should go over there, and as it makes a gross, wet  _ splat  _ noise she notices him glancing over and gives him a thumbs-up. 

Chloe is only working here for spending money. She is literally a child. Any reasonable person would wonder why she still works here, in conditions like this. But Chloe's fatal flaw is loyalty. Chloe will do anything Martin says within reason because even though her parents are nice and everything, he is the first real life gay adult she knows. (Well, knows and  _ likes _ . Peter doesn't count). Martin doesn't think he should have the responsibility of being the first real life gay adult anyone knows but he has a lot of responsibilities at this job that he isn't suited for so oh well. 

Martin looks up from doing the drawers to watch Chloe heft the iced coffee dispenser, which is as big as her torso, and scurry across the floor with it while the other barista follows her silently. A flash of outraged fury crosses her face but is swiftly wrestled down.

One of these days Martin thinks Chloe is going to snap. 

It ends up being a smooth open, and Martin is very grateful. Yes, the Dog Lady brings the border collie inside, and the border collie does stand up with paws on the counter as if it’s going to order for itself. Yes, Not Sasha, a woman with the same name as Martin’s friend but who is completely awful does order something through Deliveroo and chew them out when she arrives. Yes, they run out of whipped cream, and the other barista loses the receipt on the way back from their suspiciously long trip to buy more. But at least Martin’s least favorite regular isn’t here, and Tim, his friend, is.

Tim is settled at the bar with his laptop. He does actually do work while he is here, but there is also a good chance that he is instead 'distracting' Martin part of the time. Peter likes to emerge from his office when this happens, cheerily greet him, ask how he's been, & tell him that if he loves it here so much, The Tundra  _ is _ taking barista applications. Tim usually orders a black coffee & leaves after this happens. Today, Peter is not in yet, and so Tim orders a nicer drink and fills Martin in on what he’s up to.

"Today, my friend, I have to decide between being a decent, moral human being who tells his client that her manuscript is based so completely in problematic concepts that it's unsalvageable and that she has to tear the whole thing down and start over,  _ or _ I have to do my job, and suggest 'solutions' that aren't going to do anything but save her from having to examine her biases while making her look  _ great _ , superficially."

Martin nods as Tim starts explaining something about Twitter hashtags, and once it's clear he's stopped jokily venting and is actually upsetting himself, Martin asks,

"Is it JK Rowling?"

" _ Martin _ !" Tim cries, scandalized. "First of all, I am a cis ally,"

It takes a good half a minute for him to add his next point because the two of them are laughing so hard. 

"Second of all, if I was editing Ms. Owns-All-the-Wealth-in-Scotland, I would have much less work to do, and  _ much _ more money."

Martin is unable to keep from feeling a familiar old twinge. He knows a content editor, comparative to say, a CEO, does not make terribly much money. But a content editor, comparative to whatever Martin's official title is at this point, makes a  _ lot _ . 

Martin had mostly gotten over it by now, but ever since they'd met at uni, Tim had always had friends and Connections and Opportunities. Maybe money  _ was _ involved, after all, having two perfectly healthy parents did give you a leg up in life, but Martin had previously written it down to pretty privilege at the time, with more nastiness than he was proud of. Yes, Tim was conventionally attractive, and was if not neurotypical at least the kind of weird-brain that allowed him to finish uni, but Tim was also genuinely good at talking to people, at starting relationships and then maintaining them. It'd taken years to both figure this out and then do the difficult work of admitting to himself that  _ this _ was what he was jealous of, but Martin had done it, and whenever this job stopped running him ragged he was going to try and actually text back that one friend from secondary school that he hadn't actually ever liked that much but who he still saw on Facebook sometimes. 

Martin smiles grimly at the plastic anchor on the wall and thinks to himself that his social life is in dire straits.

Today is Thursday. Martin reviews his two friends' weekend plans. Sasha has a date on Saturday at noon-ish with a woman she met on a forum for people who build their own PCs. They're going mini-golfing...or thrifting...or...Martin feels very bad about not remembering  _ what _ Sasha and her date are going to do given how excited she is about it, but she's going to be Facetiming him about it on Sunday and they'll have a great talk like they always do. Martin can already tell that Tim is going to lose his debate with his author, and will subsequently be spending all of Saturday and Sunday rereading the manuscript and trying to figure out what can be done about it. This means he will essentially livetweet it to Martin, via a series of texts collectively as long as the stupid novel itself. Martin deeply misses the days when this was as entertaining and intellectually stimulating to him as it is for Tim, and is also thankful that as long as he reads through everything and provides some kind of response that can be followed up on when they see each other next, Tim will be understanding and essentially use him as a rubber duck. 

This weekend, Martin is working. 

Rapidly, Martin starts a complex series of calculations. Saturday into Sunday, Martin is clopening. This means he won't have time to cook dinner for himself if he wants enough sleep, but  _ will _ have access to the newly-dubbed day olds. If none of the baristas need them more than him, he'll take a sandwich or two home with him. Then he will technically be able to afford the takeout he'll order on Sunday evening, when he'll pull up some kind of horrifically grisly true crime doc on whatever streaming service he keeps forgetting to cancel and then fall asleep half an hour into it. He tells himself that this is fine, because he has Monday off, and most of his laundry is clean and he has enough groceries, so he can sleep till noon, or later, even.

_ Jesus Christ _ , he thinks to himself.  _ My life is bleak _ . 

It's quiet in the shop now, with nothing really more urgent than tidying and restocking. This kind of busywork is perfect for his brain when it wants to ruminate hopelessly for an hour or two, and he wishes for an interruption from it until it actually arrives. 

Martin's least favorite regular is here and immediately his day is worse. 

Martin's least favorite regular is named Jon. Martin will never forget the spelling, because the first time he handed the man a cup with a name on it, he'd been treated to a frown and a short, "Jon. Without the 'h'", as if there was any audible difference in the two words.

Peter had caught him fuming about it directly afterwards, and told him cheerfully, "This isn't a  _ Starbucks _ , Martin! We want our customers to  _ know _ that we know them here!"

Martin dearly wished that Jon-Without-the-H would go to a Starbucks instead. There were none close enough to The Tundra that Martin was actually willing to go snoop around and see if he'd been banned from them, but sometimes he fantasized about it. He knew  _ they _ were allowed to- that weird art student who dressed like a clown had whined at him about how they didn't let her in the one near the tube stop anymore- and while Jon-Without-the-H dresses normally enough and doesn't try to orchestrate impromptu circuses inside food establishments 'for the lols' or whatever, Martin was certain-  _ certain _ -that anyone with common sense would agree with him about the bannablity of Jon-Without-the-H. 

Where to begin a list of the man's sins? 

Martin doesn’t get a chance to begin the list, because Jon-Without-the-H has claimed the entire big table for himself again and is now eyeing the snack bar in what is either a deliberate attempt to avoid eye contact, or suspicion. 

He addresses Martin when approached. “What  _ are _ those?”

“American biscuits.”

“Why do you have American biscuits?’

Martin answers with the particular weary resignation of someone who is being forced yet again to convey ridiculous ideas. “Peter thought it would be fun.”

Thankfully, Jon-Without-the-H does not ask who Peter is. He furrows his brow at the stupid biscuits for a long time, until he finally asks, “Is the jam raspberry?”

It’s such a normal, simple question- expected, even -that it takes Martin a beat to reply. “Yes.”

“Mm. May I have one, please?”

Martin gets him his biscuit and his tea. Jon-Without-the-H gets out his wallet. For some godforsaken reason he is paying mostly in coins. Once the money is handed over Martin is pretty sure he’s short, but he doesn’t care. He tells the POS it’s exact, tosses the money in and shuts the drawer. He’ll fudge the math later. Peter never notices. Jon-Without-the-H starts clumsily putting his remaining cash and coins back into the wallet.

As he does, Martin takes in the fact that Jon-Without-the-H is missing his usual business casual attire. He’s still wearing chinos, but they’re paired with beat up, sloppily-laced trainers and a Spice Girls shirt that’s faded in a has-owned-this-since-Year-9 way, not a bought-this-pre-distressed-for-faux-vintage-cred one. His hair is squashed flat on one side, and he somehow has splotches of biro ink on his cheek and hand despite it being 8:23 AM. He has not shaved. Martin thinks it’s safe to assume that Jon-Without-the-H hasn’t slept either.

Martin can’t succinctly describe why exactly Jon-Without-the-H bothers him this much. He is only here once or twice a week, usually picking up a tea to go on Tuesdays (iced, instead of hot), or sitting at the big table on Wednesdays. Occasionally it’s a Thursday instead. His order is never complex or frustrating. In fact it’s always the same. But his timing is bad, he seems to only order when the shop is busy, he always seems annoyed with Martin (does he think Martin is personally trying to ruin his day?), and he takes up the entire table with his laptop and hundreds of folders and loose papers for hours without ordering refills or a new drink often enough to not be making a nuisance of himself. At  _ least _ he wears headphones when he gets his tape recorder out.

This week Jon-Without-the-H has been here every day, with an enormous amount of work in tow. Martin had opened yesterday too, and apparently he’d been there almost till close. Didn’t he have an office job? Why was he here so often?

Jon-Without-the-H sips his tea, and it registers that he hadn’t actually ordered it, but paid for it anyway. Martin hadn’t realized he’d memorized his order. Jon-Without-the-H’s glasses are hanging precariously from one ear as he hunches over his laptop. He scowls at something he’s reading, snatches them off and starts gnawing absentmindedly but fiercely on one of the arms. He shuffles through a handful of papers, looks like he is about to bite the piece of plastic and wire dangling from his mouth neatly in half, and then grabs a folder from under three others. It seems to have what he’s looking for. He doesn’t seem to remember to stop chewing on his frames.

Martin is not aware of how much attention he is paying him until Tim leans across the bar and says slyly, “I didn’t know you liked _ older _ men.”

Martin is not in the mood to be caught staring and he is  _ not _ in the mood for jokes. “He’s our age. Premature graying. Autoimmune disorder, maybe?”

“ _ And _ you know his medical history!”

“No! I just thought-” He almost gestures at the cane leaning against the table, thinks,  _ what the fuck, _ at himself, and is so flustered he can’t finish the sentence. 

Maybe he ought to have at least tried. Tim isn’t picking up on the usual ‘drop it’ cues, because they aren’t there.

“What does he like, do?” When Martin looks at him like an irritated, trapped rabbit he acts utterly shocked. “You don’t know?  _ Martin _ !”

“I don’t know what most of the people here do, Tim. I only  _ pretend _ to care. That’s customer service for you.”

“If only you had someone to melt that heart of ice,” Tim tuts. “You should talk to him, Martin.”

Martin drums his fingers on the bar to keep himself from chewing on them. “No, Tim, I shouldn’t?”

“Why not? When was the last time you went on a date?”

Martin has to think, and when it’s been three minutes Tim sighs deeply and then does an impression of Tim’s mother. “A man your age  _ should  _ go on dates, Martin! You need someone to share all of that creepy serial killer knowledge with! Someone to make sure you don’t watch those horrible documentaries all alone!”

“ _ You’re exaggerating about the serial killers, Tim _ ,” Martin says through gritted teeth, glancing nervously in Jon-Without-the-H’s direction. “ _ Everyone tells me to watch Kitchen Nightmares but it gives me  _ actual _ nightmares so I _ -”

Tim pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Martin. I’ll help.”

“ _ Tim _ !” Martin hisses.

“Martin?” Tim smiles warmly.

Martin smiles back. “Do your job, and let me do mine!”

“You should,” Tim says, and cocks his head at the register, where that awful clown girl is waiting. Martin retreats, and while he makes the latest disgusting concoction from her sick imagination, he is forced to watch in horror as Jon-Without-the-H goes to get a coffee stirrer, which are on a little table next to Tim, who leans ever so slightly backwards on his stool when he approaches, smiles, and goes, “ _ Hey _ ,”

Jon-Without-the-H freezes like a man caught holding a murder weapon instead of a tiny wooden stick.

Tim is completely undiscouraged. He puts an elbow on the bar and leans towards him now instead. “I see you in here all the time. What’re you  _ doing _ over there? Writing a novel?” 

When Jon-Without-the-H looks suspicious he adds, “I work at a publishing house, you know.”

There is an impressively long silence before Jon-Without-the-H replies. “...Archival work. It’s...archival work.”

“Archival work!” Tim cries brightly. “That’s interesting!”

Jon-Without-the-H glances at his table and scoffs in a way that makes Martin think he doesn’t realize how loudly he’s done it. He says witheringly, “Not at this volume.”

Tim is still undeterred in spirit even if he’s unable to think up more repartee. He raises his eyebrows. Jon-without-the-H squints at him for a moment and then lowers his.

“Archival work!” Tim tells Martin, after Jon-Without-the-H has beaten a swift retreat back to his table. “That  _ is _ interesting.”

“He thought you were chatting him up,” Martin mutters, looking worriedly at Jon-Without-the-H’s back.

“I _ might _ do, if you don’t talk to him already.”

“ _ Tim _ !”

“There you go, Martin! An ultimatum!”

Martin is pretty sure Tim is joking, but not completely sure, and he wants to make him clarify but then Peter walks through the door. For a man getting divorced in two days, one would’ve expected him to be in a stormy mood, but he just looked  _ sad _ . Martin almost felt bad for him. Peter gave everyone behind the counter what was clearly his best attempt at a genial smile, and retreated to the office as quickly as he could. No one heard anything from him for the rest of Martin’s shift, and when Sasha arrives at the end of it Martin has almost completely forgotten any discussion of dates.

“I’m so excited about my date!” Sasha cries. She pops a straw (plastic, one from a stash Martin has smuggled into the shop) into her iced coffee.

“If only we  _ all  _ were so excited about dates,” Tim says, and looks smugly at Martin.

Sasha takes a long sip of her coffee. She closes her eyes.

“What,” She asks.

“Martin won’t talk to the glasses guy.”

Martin glances frantically around, only to see that ‘The Glasses Guy’ has his headphones on, and is typing fervidly.

“Why don’t you want to talk to the glasses guy, Martin? You seem interested in him.”

“I feel weird that he’s a customer,” Martin lies. “It’d be like bringing work home with me.”

Tim laughs so loudly at this that Martin is afraid Jon-Without-the-H will hear.

"Well, I mean your dating pool  _ does _ consist of men outside of the ones you meet at your job," Sasha says. "But I don't know, there's Michael."

"The tiny guy?" Tim asks. 

"No," Martin says. "That's Mike."

Martin and Mike had met at a support group for transmasculine people much earlier in Martin's transition, when he was more naive and assumed that just because another person was trans this automatically made them friend material. They hadn't gotten on at all, and the fact that Mike was one of the only reoccurring members of the book club that met there every Saturday afternoon had been, and continued to be, horrifically awkward. 

He must not've sounded disinterested enough, because Tim replies enthusiastically. 

"Yeah, but he is gay, though! I've seen him around at events and stuff. Too intense for me, personally."

"I think he's too intense for anybody," Martin grumbles. 

He hopes his friends will drop the subject, but he must not have hoped hard enough, because after a moment of concentrated thought Tim cries, "Oh!  _ Michael _ ! The brick shithouse with the hair!"

Sasha shoots half of her iced coffee out of her nose. 

As Martin grabs a fistful of napkins, he thinks that Tim's description was not  _ wrong _ . Michael, who has been buying coffee here about as long as Martin had been making it, is improbably tall and broad, and there is something about him that is weird. He is certainly friendly, and he is certainly nice, but he seems to exist slightly to the left of everyone else in a way Martin is never able to stop thinking of as off putting. 

"Hmmm," Martin finally replies. He passes Sasha more napkins. 

"Oh come on," Tim says. "What're you worried about? He's  _ definitely _ gay. The dramatic coat? The sweaters? Hell, in the summer he looks like a bowling alley carpet threw up on him. Not my aesthetic, really, but it is a definite  _ look _ . And he's not half bad looking."

" _ You're _ half bad," Sasha elbows him. "What's the matter, Martin?"

Martin weighs whether it is worth being honest against his friends thinking he is a bad person. 

"I think his laugh is annoying,"

"Oh my god," Sasha snorts, wadding up soaked napkins and tossing them over the bar and into the employee trash. "You're so  _ mean _ ! He can't help that!"

"I know, but he does it all the time, and it almost sounds like he's going to cry? And it's like, wheezy? I can't stand it. Anyway, Michael is moving."

"Peter will be devastated," Tim says. "He'll miss all those nice cable knits to compliment."

"Honestly, I'll actually miss him," Sasha slurps the remains of her coffee. "He's always been pretty nice to me."

“Michael is nice to everyone,” Martin says, and by the time he finally clocks out and goes home he is completely sick of the topic of dating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While this fic is actively discussing class, i realize it doesn't touch upon race. Given how poorly the source material handles race, & i'm a white man, i can't think of any way to improve upon it in a piece of fanfiction & i don't think i should be the one to try. Pick whatever headcanons you like, just don't be weird.
> 
> Also, here's [the playlist the barista got fired for](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/58MN28uFMaUwJCeBNTNtNm?si=U75YR5QrTqGAu41NekRBaw)LOL


End file.
